


Lightning Storms and Meteor Showers

by china_shop



Series: Waltzverse [14]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Compromise, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, F/F, F/M, Fights, Hurt feelings, Making Up, Multi, Non-biological parents, parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-05
Updated: 2015-10-05
Packaged: 2018-04-24 21:48:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4936528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/china_shop/pseuds/china_shop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Family life. (Three times they fought, and three times they didn't.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A million thanks to mergatrude for first reading and beta, Vaudevilles for advice and beta, and Sherylyn for Ameripicking.

Peter propped his head on his hand and blinked hard at the calculations in front of him, forcing them into focus. He was exhausted but doggedly refused to shirk his duty. He'd put off doing their yearly accounts four times in the last month, and he'd get them out of the way this afternoon during Mikey's nap or die trying.

El was asleep upstairs, curled around the baby monitor. Neal was allegedly reading on the couch, but he hadn't turned a page in ten minutes and was probably dozing too. It had been a hell of a month: Mikey, normally robust and healthy, had been struck down with a series of fevers and colds that culminated in a week of near-sleepless nights. They were all drunk on sleep deprivation, reeling around the house like a crew of soused sailors.

A loud yawn came from the direction of the couch, giving lie to Peter's assumption, and he figured he might as well take advantage of Neal's wakefulness. He moved his chair forward a few inches so he could see Neal's face. His hair was mussed, his beard longer than usual, and he was wearing a stained t-shirt and pajama pants—a far cry from the old days of perfect grooming and expensive suits.

"Hey," said Peter. "This is probably a stupid question, but do you have any retirement savings, a 401(k) account or anything?"

Neal sat up and rubbed his face. "What?"

He put his book aside, picked up a red and blue plastic dump truck and started flipping the bed up and down.

"Savings, investments, assets," said Peter. "I'm recalculating our retirement targets, now there's three of us. Four of us."

Neal shrugged. "Don't worry about me. I've got it covered. In fact, I've got us all covered."

"What does that mean?" Peter turned in his seat. 

"It means I have savings, and mi dinero es su dinero." Neal slouched down, dropped the truck on the seat beside him and let his head fall against the back of the couch. "God, I'm beat. I'll have to text Trey and cancel this evening. Is there coffee in the pot?" 

"I'll put some on in a minute," said Peter.

Neal had struck up an unlikely friendship with Trey, who lived around the corner and was one of the neighborhood's main movers and shakers. Peter was still unsure how much it was genuine and how much politic, a way to fit in with the local social network, but either way, the two of them were currently embroiled in a secret project to design some kind of mysterious present for Trey's teenage stepdaughter, Nova. Peter watched Neal fumble for his phone and tried to tamp down his suspicion that mentioning Trey was a deliberate diversion. "Savings from where? You know I can't live off the proceeds of crime."

"It's not—" Neal huffed impatiently, finished his text and sent it. Then he looked up. "A lot of it's earnings from when I was in Paris. I didn't have many expenses, and Cécile was a much more generous employer than the FBI."

Clearly, having to explain himself rankled, or maybe it was the memory of the FBI's meagre stipend, or having walked away from a high-status, well-paying job in the most glamorous city in Europe. This wasn't the time to remind Neal of the circumstances of his work release or to get defensive about the current grueling state of their lives, but Peter couldn't let the matter slide either. "And the rest?"

"I liquidated a few assets before I left." Neal shook his head. "Seriously, just take the money, Peter. Fill the coffers. Then you won't have to waste any more Saturday afternoons with your nose in the accounts."

"I'm a federal agent," said Peter, sharply.

"I noticed." Neal rolled his eyes, still sprawled on the couch, knees wide. "And I'm a respectable businessman. You going to get off your high horse any time soon?"

"What do you think?" Peter got up and started pacing, his hands going automatically to his hips. Satchmo, who had been lying next to him, hoping for dropped crumbs or attention, whined and trotted into the kitchen. "You know, we need to discuss this. We should have talked it out before."

"What?" Neal yawned again. "Can it at least wait until we've had more than two solid hours' sleep?"

"No, it can't. We're a family. We support each other, we make joint decisions and share responsibility, and we work together _legally_ for the things we need. You're still behaving like you're a—"

"Peter." Neal's eyes had narrowed. The single word a warning.

But Peter was on a roll. "—free agent. You know, El and I check in with each other before we spend more than three or four hundred bucks. What do you do? You buy a car without saying a word, then a month later you sell it again. Did you think how we might feel about that?"

"It was _my_ car," snapped Neal, jumping to his feet as if he'd been jerked upright by puppet strings. He pointed at Peter. "You're sounding an awful lot like a handler right about now, Peter. Going to ask to check my credit card statement next? Or hey, why ask first—isn't that why you have the PATRIOT Act? You can get my eBay bids while you're at it."

Peter's throat tightened. It wasn't like Neal to lose his temper, and Peter's own track record with fights was disastrous. "Hey, slow down. I didn't mean—"

"No, if that's the way you feel, fine, I'll give the money away. I'll put it in a trust for Mikey. You and El and I can scrape by on your oh-so-generous FBI pension. What could possibly go wrong?"

Exasperation rose up, overthrowing caution. "You're not giving your ill-gotten gains to Mikey! What kind of message would that send him—that it's okay to steal?"

"He never has to know where it came from," said Neal, gesturing wide.

"Oh, so it's okay to lie to our son. Because that always ends so well." Peter ran his hand over his head and dialed back the sarcasm. "Look, why don't you just give the money back? You can do it anonymously. Write them a nice apology note. It would make their day."

Neal's jaw clenched. "It's not that simple. Even if I could figure out exact amounts and who the injured parties were, the insurance companies paid out years ago. It's ancient history, Peter. Everyone's moved on."

"Everyone except your bank balance," said Peter. "You could pay back the insurance companies." It was an easy equation, the right thing to do.

But for some reason the suggestion made Neal madder. "You think they made a loss on the deal? A string of high-profile heists is the best advertising an insurance company can buy! What better way to drum up business?"

"Is that really what you tell yourself?" Peter stared at Neal, wondering if he'd ever understand him.

"Guys!" hissed El from halfway up the stairs. 

Peter jumped out of his skin.

"Goldilocks," said Neal, his temper visibly fading as he went over to talk to her. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing yet," she said, tightening the belt on her robe. "But if you keep up all this shouting, you're going to wake a sleeping monster, and if you do, it's on you two. Seriously. I'm this close to going to find a hotel room or a nice quiet park bench where I can get some actual sleep, and then you guys are on your own."

"Sorry," said Neal. "We'll keep it down."

"Sorry, hon," said Peter, lowering his voice. Hoping she'd come down and diffuse the dispute with her trademark good sense, make Neal see reason. But she pushed her hair back and said, "Okay," and trudged upstairs again like a zombie. 

Neal folded his arms, his hands fisted, and looked at Peter. "Look, I'm sorry my money isn't good enough for you—"

"Well, I'm sorry my conscience is such a burden for you," Peter shot back without thinking. 

Neal inhaled sharply, his chin coming up in defiance, and opened his mouth to retaliate, and in that split second, Peter saw how upset he was—the stiffness in his posture, his face blank and shuttered—and heard what he'd really meant: _Sorry_ I'm _not good enough._

"Wait." Peter held up his hands like a stop sign. This had gotten way out of hand. He went over and carefully, gently took Neal's hand, relieved when he didn't pull away. "I'm sorry. We're both dead on our feet. I should have listened when you said 'not now.'" If he had, perhaps they could have discussed the matter without fighting. Instead, he'd fallen into old patterns, forced the issue as if he still had the right to lay down the law between them.

"Yeah, you should." Neal looked grim, but he was hanging onto Peter's hand like a lifeline.

"We're in this together, for better or worse." Peter moved closer, slid his fingers into Neal's hair and rubbed his temples with his thumbs, then pressed tender kisses to the soft skin beside his eyes. He'd known exactly who Neal was when they got together; it was hypocritical to throw it in his face now. "I'm sorry, Sundance. I was out of line."

Neal sighed and softened, sliding his arms around Peter's waist. "So, what do you want me to do with the money?"

Peter nearly said, _We'll figure it out,_ but he stopped himself just in time. A year and a half ago, Neal had left more than a dozen stolen masterpieces in the shipping container along with the clues that he'd faked his death. He'd tried to make good. And whatever he'd sold must have been from old crimes; Peter had already put those behind them. "It's your money," he said now. "What do you want to do with it?"

Neal shifted his weight, leaned in closer. "I don't know. Right now, I either want coffee or sleep or make-up sex."

Peter smiled. "Settle for make-up making out?" They were both too tired to do sex justice. Neal looked like he could barely keep his eyes open. Peter drew him down to the couch, pressed him back against the cushions and brushed his lips across his mouth.

"What about your homework?" murmured Neal. "The accounts."

"They can wait." Peter kicked off his shoes and stretched out, pulling Neal's body against his, holding him. The couch was narrow and too short, but once they'd ousted the plastic dump truck and rescued Neal's book and phone, with a bit of maneuvering and some bent knees, they managed. Peter grabbed a fleece throw from by his feet and wedged it next to Neal's head, meaning to lay his head there and go back to kissing him, but it was too late. Neal's breathing had deepened. He was asleep. Peter settled in beside him, slung an arm across his waist and joined him.

Peter woke maybe an hour later to a crick in his neck and the smell of coffee. He felt better, his head cleared of fog, at least for now, and his equilibrium fully restored. He levered himself upright as Neal put two cups on the coffee table and sat beside him. "Hey, Rip Van Winkle. You have crease marks on your face."

"Hey. You owe me kisses." Peter claimed one.

"Mm, I think you've got that backwards, cowboy." Neal leaned into him. "El's still asleep, and miracle of miracles, so is Mikey."

"That is a miracle." Peter nuzzled Neal's neck in a not-so-subtle gesture, but Neal's mind was on other things.

"So, okay," he said. "You and El have personal bank accounts, as well as your joint account, right?"

"That's right." Peter reached for his coffee and waited, keeping an open mind.

Neal nodded. "I want in on the joint account, collaborative decision-making and all. I'll put a portion of my salary from BPE in there. It's not much, but I'm hoping for a promotion sometime soon." 

He offered Peter a tentative smile, and Peter returned it gladly. "We'll set it up Monday. Get you a debit card too. That'll give them something to talk about at the bank."

Neal's smile turned into a smirk. "Good. And I'll figure out how much I have saved from Paris. That can go into the retirement account. As for the rest, I'm thinking I'll put a third into an off-shore emergency fund in case of ransom demands or other crises, and give a third to charity."

"Sounds fair." It was a compromise Peter could live with. He drank a mouthful of coffee, glad they were back on the same page. "And the last third?"

Neal picked the dump truck off the floor and ran it up Peter's thigh. "The last third can pay for our annual jaunts to Paris." 

He sounded casual, but there was a trace of residual hurt lurking there. And a challenge.

Peter kissed his shoulder through his t-shirt and conceded without a second thought. When you were in love with an ex-thief, you had to count yourself grateful for the "ex" part and accept the rest. He put down his cup and wrested the truck from Neal. "Sounds good. I can't live off the proceeds of crime, but I suppose it won't hurt to vacation off them occasionally."

Neal laughed outright and kissed him, pressed their foreheads together, and they grinned at each other, tired but at peace. Neal touched Peter's cheek. "In the meantime, what do you say we book El a hotel room for the night? You and I can handle the monster on our own for one night."

Peter engulfed him in a playful bear hug, catching his wrist when he tried to retaliate with tickling. Neal laughed and wriggled his legs free enough to wrap them around Peter's hips, making Peter's breath catch, and Peter groped his ass and kissed him. "Between us, we can do any damn thing we want."


	2. Chapter 2

"Thank God it's Friday." El staggered into the house with Mikey, Mozart the bear and the baby bag and kicked the door closed behind her. "Isn't that right, Monster mine? Today has not been one for the history books." There had been costly mistakes and miscommunications, and an overlong afternoon meeting with Beau McCall, a client she didn't particularly like and whose decisions she couldn't help second-guessing. And she'd had to interrupt the meeting repeatedly to tend to Mikey. She felt hot, tired and over-saturated with people. "If I didn't have to feed you soon, I'd be pouring myself a big glass of wine, or maybe a big glass of gin." She sighed at the thought, though just as good would be an hour's solitude on the couch with a cup of tea and some comfort reading. Even half an hour.

Mikey screwed up his face and started crying, setting her last nerve on edge. Thankfully, Neal sauntered out of the kitchen, barefoot and with an open jar of olives in his hand. He popped one in his mouth and licked his fingers. "You look like someone who needs rescuing from a fearsome monster."

"Please," said El, shortly. She was too frazzled for games.

Neal put the olives aside, helped her unclip the strap-on carrier and took Mikey and Mozart in his arms. "There, there, easy now, buddy. Did you have a hard time in the rainforests of Borneo? Couldn't find any orangutans, huh? Oh, hey, I think you need changing. Yes, you do. Here, let's leave Mozart out here in the safe zone, where he won't get caught in any accidents, okay?"

El followed them to the changing table. "Why are you home? I thought you were setting up for the charity auction."

"We finished early, and Yvonne said she and Jeannie could take it from there, since you and I are on wedding duty tomorrow afternoon, so I came home and got started on dinner." Neal winced and recoiled from Mikey slightly. "Phew, you've outdone yourself this time, Monsterpants. How long till potty training?"

"At least another year," said El, trying hard not to mind that when Yvonne had let Neal go, he'd come home rather than returning to the showroom to help with Mikey. She touched his arm in a brief greeting, but he was too busy with Mikey to respond, and that was almost a relief.

Screw it. There was some expressed milk in the fridge; she could have a glass of wine now and metabolize it before Mikey's bedtime feeding. Peter and Neal had opened a bottle of chardonnay last night—except it was in the recycling bin now, and next to the chopping board heaped with diced vegetables was an empty wineglass.

El let out a long sigh. The bottles in the cupboard would be at room temperature, wrong for white, and they were out of red. She put some water on to boil for tea.

"Oh, hey," said Neal. "Next time, can we get Kalamata olives instead of green? They're so much better."

"Sure," said El, without turning around. She pressed her lips together. She was not going to argue with him about olive varieties, even though she preferred green. They could always get both. Hell, they could fill their whole kitchen with olives, for all she cared. Install an oil press by the back door. 

"Okay, you're all done, kiddo. That's better, isn't it? Nice and clean," said Neal to Mikey, whose sobs had subsided to sniffles and hiccups. 

El knew he didn't mean it as criticism. She was just in a mood—and she really needed to shake it before it ruined her evening. She touched her forehead, where a faint ache was turning into a throb. "You feed Mikey. I have to take a shower."

Just get five minutes to herself, that's all she meant. But it must have come out wrong, because Neal frowned. "You all right, sweetheart?"

"Yeah. There's a milk bottle in the fridge. You just need to heat it up." She headed for the stairs before the tangle of irrational complaints could escape her mouth.

"Okay," muttered Neal, behind her. "But you know, I'm not your intern here. I don't need step-by-step instructions."

El turned back, her hands fisting despite herself. "And I didn't ask you to be my intern at work! I offered you a partnership—you were the one who made the deal with Yvonne."

Mikey started whimpering, tears leaking from his eyes, and guilt just made El crosser and more desperate to get away. She loved him so much she was exhausted with it, and it still wasn't enough. He was still miserable. And she didn't have anything left to give.

Neal bounced and shushed him, trying to calm him down, as he dug the milk out of the back of the fridge, juggling the two tasks with apparent ease. "Well, what choice did I have? Yvonne didn't trust me. A partnership was never going to work."

"You could have trusted me to make it work, but you didn't," said El. "You had to do it your way. Con her into accepting you."

A muscle in Neal's jaw jumped, but his tone stayed even and soothing in deference to Mikey. "It's not a con. You were trying to steamroll her."

"I'm her boss. I'm supposed to make the decisions," said El, copying his tone, doing her best to mute her exasperation. "I didn't offer you a partnership blindly, you know—I did it because I believe in you. That's all the proving yourself you should need. Instead you legitimized Yvonne's doubts."

"The best way to win her over is to make her think it's her idea to accept me into the business."

"No." El shook her head. Mikey was still unhappy, picking up on their tension, but damn, it was hard to keep her voice low and calm with this itch of frustration rising up in her and her head aching. "It might be the best way as far as you're concerned—the one where you do it all yourself—but it's not the best way for me. You undermined me. You might as well have said I only offered you the partnership because we're sleeping together."

"Well, didn't you?"

"I'm in love, not stupid. What kind of a businesswoman do you think I am?" El folded her arms crossly. "And another thing—I happen to like green olives!"

Neal's mouth fell open. "This is about the olives? I don't believe this. And I thought it was crazy when you and Peter argued about dry-cleaning." He rescued the bottle, tested it, hooked one of the dining chairs out from the table with his foot and started trying to feed Mikey, but Mikey refused the bottle, and just then the kettle started whistling, adding to the fraught atmosphere.

El took the kettle off the stovetop and leaned on the counter, pulling herself together. "I just wanted five minutes to myself," she muttered.

It was her own fault. She'd nearly escaped for the respite she needed; if only she'd ignored Neal's grumbled remark instead of turning back. 

Soft sucking sounds came from behind her, so Neal must have managed to convince Mikey to take the bottle. He was crooning to him about forests and long ship voyages and all the usual nonsense.

El shook her head and went upstairs, intending to take a quick shower, but instead she sat on the side of the bath and cried hot angry tears—mostly at herself for not holding it together, for fighting in front of Mikey, and the distance she'd put between herself and Neal. She couldn't go on like this. She wiped her eyes, blew her nose and turned on the shower. 

When she came down again, barefoot and in her favorite pajamas, Mikey was in his high chair, banging his plastic rattle on the tray, and Neal was sitting next to him, saying, "It's going to be okay, I promise," but he sounded sad.

El walked right up to him, pulled him out of his chair and put her arms around him. "I love you," she said. "I'm sorry."

"Let's never do that again." He hugged her back tightly, almost clinging to her, but instead of feeling smothered, she was okay, glad of him, her head and heart cleared by the tears. 

She raised her head and kissed him, leaning against him. "Remember when we got together, we talked about pressure valves? And then I started back at work, and there was our young art thief—"

"Calvin Sullivan."

"—and the Oswald Group's gala, and we've been going eighty miles an hour ever since so you can prove yourself to Yvonne." She breathed a tired giggle. It was all so ridiculous, an avalanche of stress. "Originally when I decided to go back to work, it was going to be just a couple of days a week, and now look at us."

He stroked her hair, smiling uncertainly. "But you love it."

"I do, but you know, I don't love getting to Friday night and feeling like an old chew-toy. And Mikey doesn't love it either." She sighed and cupped Neal's cheek, his beard tickling her palm. "This has to stop. Either I cut back my hours at work, or we find some daycare for Mikey."

"Whatever it takes, you know that. Which do you want to do? And shouldn't Peter be here for this?"

"Not if we're establishing what we've already agreed," said El. "I want to cut back at work, and I want you to step up and be my partner. Let me talk to Yvonne."

"You want to call off the deal." Neal didn't look happy about that. "She's still not sure about me, and she'll never come around if I break my word. It's only another five weeks."

"It's been nearly two months already, and we can't keep on like this," said El. "I can't. Let me fix it my way. You don't have to prove yourself to her—or to me."

"Breaking the deal—that's what feels like a con." Neal gave her a small rueful smile, but his eyes were warm, and there was no distance between them now. "But you're right. Do it your way. After all, you're the boss."

El snorted, leaning into him, and smacked him on the arm. "Not for much longer."

Mikey banged his rattle, and Neal grinned down at him, without letting El go. "That's right—you're the real boss, aren't you, Monster? Yeah, I've got your number. You're running the show."

Mikey grinned, displaying his single little tooth, and the next thing, they were all giggling, Neal and El and Mikey too, exhausted and relieved, and so damned glad to have each other.

"I'm going to tell Peter we had a fight about olives," said El, when she could talk again. "I can't wait to see his face."


	3. Chapter 3

It was both a pleasure and a disappointment, thought Neal as he brushed his teeth, that only six months into their unconventional relationship, he, Peter and El were as likely to collapse into bed together, kiss goodnight and be asleep in five minutes as they were to make love. On the one hand, this casual, affectionate domesticity was exactly what he'd wanted. He'd been missing it ever since Kate left him. The quick hugs, distracted kisses-in-passing, the touches, so natural and bountiful they didn't need to be treasured individually. They were where the real magic lay. 

On the other hand, he'd spent the last several days unaccountably horny, and thanks to conflicting work schedules and El's having a cold and the interruptions of parenting, it had been a fruitless week in that department. 

He rinsed and spat, and as he put his toothbrush back in the rack, an unopened jar in the bathroom cabinet caught his eye. He grabbed it and went into the bedroom, where El had stopped halfway through undressing to blow her nose, and Peter was already in bed. 

Neal tossed him the jar. "You still haven't opened this."

"Yeah, you know…" Peter looked at it for a moment, then put it on the nightstand he shared with Neal, next to their phones. "I appreciate the thought, but I don't think it's for me."

Neal threw his t-shirt and socks in the hamper. "It's not a religion, Peter, it's hand cream. What do you mean, it's not for you?"

Peter sat up and scratched his jaw. "Look, first you gave me that gift certificate for a manicure, and fine, I went along with it. I know you meant well. But this stuff's probably worth its weight in palladium. I can be bi without getting all fancy. I'm never going to be metrosexual or whatever you're angling for. What you see is what you get."

"Hon, I don't think that's—"

"It's not about getting fancy," said Neal, speaking over her. "I'm not asking you to be someone you're not."

Peter frowned. "Oh yeah? Then why—" 

"Your hands are a mess." Neal looked down at him sternly.

"What? My hands are fine." Peter spared them a fleeting glance. "Just because they don't meet your exacting standards of grooming."

"Peter, listen to me." Neal stalked to the foot of the bed and leaned forward, planting one hand between Peter's legs and pointing with the other. "Your skin has been a disaster since that cold snap in October. You have hangnails. And you're not putting your fingers in me again until you do something about it."

"I—" Peter blinked and looked to El, who made a face.

"I told you last week, hon. This time of year, the heating in the Federal Building dries out your skin."

"I have hangnails," said Peter slowly. "Why didn't you say something? You're the great communicator, and your answer was to buy me a manicure?"

"Some people can take a hint," snapped Neal. Peter was a detective, and El had already raised the matter more than once. Neal had honestly thought the message had gotten through.

"And some people like to dress up a health and safety issue as a matter of vanity." Peter's frown deepened as the implications finally struck home. "Did I hurt you? Jesus, why didn't you say something?"

Neal waved that aside. It had been a couple of months ago, and he'd barely felt it at the time, too caught up in the moment; it was only afterwards he realized Peter had left a small scratch, and by then it seemed petty to make a big deal about it. The manicure resolved the problem for a while, and since then, Neal had avoided Peter's fucking him. Given the varied nature and slowed pace of their sex life, it hadn't made that much difference. "It was nothing."

"Apparently it was something, if you're buying me hand cream," argued Peter. "I thought you were trying to make me—" He shook his head. "—different."

"Stupid," said Neal, sitting next to him, leaning in, his frustration transforming into something else that sizzled between them. "I don't want you different. I want you inside me." He took the jar from the nightstand and put it in Peter's hand. "So could you please get in the habit of using that? Consider it foreplay."

Peter snorted, clasped Neal by the neck and pulled him into his lap. "Next time something like this comes up, spell it out for me, okay?"

Neal wrapped his arms around him, holding tight. "Only if you promise not to get defensive."

Peter drew back, narrowing his eyes, but there was a gleam of humor there now. "I'll do my best." 

"Me too," said Neal, and kissed him, pulling him sideways so they were sprawled together across the pillows at the head of the bed. Peter laughed low and kissed him back, and Neal savored the connection between them, the excitement of how much they still wanted each other. 

"You guys are adorable, and I love you," said El, blowing her nose again. "But if you're having make-up sex, I think I'm going to sit this one out. I'll take the couch."

Peter sent her a rueful half-smile. "You sure, hon? We don't have to."

"We do," said Neal. "Desperately." He shrugged an apology to El, who despite her flushed face and sore-looking nose looked as lovely as ever. The three of them together rivaled any extravagantly erotic or sensual experience he could name, and he'd much rather have included her if she'd been up for it, but there were virtues to a little one-on-one action too. More focus. "We'll owe you. Once you're better, anything you want."

"I'll start working on my wish list, then. Item one, a scandalous liaison between the beautiful art gallery manager and the devilishly handsome art thief." 

Neal laughed. "I can't wait."

She pulled on her robe and tucked the tissue box under her arm. "Goodnight, my bears. I'd kiss you, but you'd have to gargle Purell."

They chorused their goodnights, and when she'd gone, Neal looked up at Peter. "Hey, cowboy."

"Hey." Peter's face was a picture of fond contentment—and then a shadow crossed it, and his hands stilled on Neal's body.

"What?"

"I wish you'd told me," he said. "I hate thinking that I hurt you."

"I know. That's why I didn't tell you." Neal stretched lazily, reveling in the press of their bodies. "Ego te absolvo. Now, what are you in the mood for?"

Peter caught his fingers and made a show of examining them. "Well, I don't know. _Your_ hands look like they're in pretty good shape."


	4. Chapter 4

Peter stood in the doorway of Mikey's room and watched Neal and El tuck the boy in. They'd moved him from the crib to a twin bed almost a year ago now, but Peter still couldn't believe their tiny newborn had grown so big so fast. The years were a blur.

El put _Where the Wild Things Are_ back on the bookshelf and turned on the colored nightlight in the corner. Neal bent and kissed Mikey's temple. "Goodnight, Monster. Sweet dreams."

Mikey yawned a sleepy reply. He settled more quickly when all three of his parents put him to bed, and it didn't happen as often as it might.

Peter could feel himself settling too, suffused with a deep contentment and comforting conviction. He stood aside so El and Neal could file out of the twilit room, and they retreated to their own bedroom and shut the door before any of them spoke.

The tuxes were lined up in the open closet. El was keeping her dress at Yvonne's place; she wanted it to be a surprise.

Peter drew the others close, trying to dispel the subtle tension that was building like static electricity. Neal nuzzled the corner of his jaw, then kissed El, stroking her hair back from her face. "What are you supposed to say the night before a wedding? If you want to back out, here's your last chance."

"Not on your life, babe," said El, but her smile was restrained. She leaned into Peter, and he tightened his hold on her instinctively, his certainty of a few seconds ago wavering. Was he really prepared to share his formal claim on El? The three-way marriage wouldn't be legally binding, but symbolically it would put them all on an equal footing. That's why they were doing it. They'd even joked about changing their names—hyphenating Burke-Moreau, or Neal becoming Victor Burke—but Neal's chosen name, Victor Moreau, had never taken one hundred percent, and it still sometimes reminded Peter of Kate. If Burke-Caffrey had been an option, that would have been another matter.

His doubt receded. Neal by any other name was still Neal, firmly established in their family, and about to become officially so in front of family and friends, and in the sight of God if He existed and cared to watch. 

"What about you, Butch?" said Neal. "Wedding jitters?"

Peter cupped his face one-handed and kissed him tenderly. "I love you."

"That's not an answer." But Neal looked amused and fond and went to take off his shoes and put them away.

El pulled away too, and curled up at the head of the bed, in the middle, hugging a pillow. "There's something we need to talk about."

Neal stopped undressing and went to her, sitting beside her and taking her hand. Peter took the other side, aware of the symmetry. "What it is, hon?"

Her grip tightened. "About three months ago now, I had a pregnancy scare." She paused and leaned her head on Neal's shoulder. "I didn't say anything because I wasn't sure, and then it wasn't anything."

Neal went very still, whether from hope or fear Peter couldn't tell. "Do you—do you want another baby?"

"I don't. That's the thing. I love you both, and I love Mikey and our life and this house. I don't think we could fit another person in here with a crowbar. And I don't want to go through all that again anyway, God! But when I wasn't sure if it was already happening—" She tugged on Peter's arm, pulling him closer until she was sandwiched between them. "—I was filled with a strange and unexpected ambivalence. We've never talked about you having a biological baby of your own. Before we formally tie the knot, I thought, I don't know. We should."

Peter could already picture her—a daughter, this time, with blue eyes and dark hair and a charmer's smile. Within a split second, he was in love with the vision, and simultaneously shaken with territoriality over his wife. But El was saying no anyway, and Neal—

"I already have a child," said Neal. "Our child. I don't need—" He stopped and pressed his face to the side of her head. "The thought that you'd even consider it means so much, but after James, after everything he did, and everything I did—it's not a good idea."

As if he thought his very genes were corrupted. Peter was about to reassure him, but El got there first.

"It's true James let us down," she said. "He let you down too. But, my love, you have never failed me. You saved Peter. If you hadn't done everything you did, including bribing that prosecutor, he'd still be in prison now, and if Mikey existed at all, I'd be raising him on my own. I have this life, this family that is everything to me, because of you. Because you're a good man."

"I doubt Peter agrees with that assessment." Neal had paled, and now he looked past her and locked gazes with Peter. "Night before the wedding, Agent Burke. Your last chance to back out."

Peter's stomach was roiling as it did whenever he thought about what had happened with Dawson, the federal prosecutor on his case. But he didn't hesitate. "That's in the past. I don't want to back out."

Neal looked suddenly determined. "You might not be so sure if you knew the whole truth."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Peter went cold. There was more to the story? Something worse than perverting the course of justice? 

"What truth, babe?" said El.

Neal's chest rose as he took a breath. "I want to confess. You deserve—you can't make those promises tomorrow without knowing what really happened."

"So tell me," said Peter, his voice calm while the foundations of his world threatened to crumble. He put his arm around El for comfort, belatedly realizing it would look like strategy: two against one. No time to worry about that. "Tell us everything."

The story spilled out, slowly at first. Hagen's offer to help, the blackmail, everything after. Neal made it sound as if he himself had acted alone, but Peter knew Mozzie must have played a part too. And with every revelation, every crime, Peter felt lighter. If this was as bad as it got, it was a damned sight better than it could have been.

"You did a deal with the devil, and you paid the price." Peter couldn't say he wouldn't do the same for Neal now, if that was what it took to keep him safe. Or for El or Mikey. Even if it cost him his soul.

"When Siegel," said Neal, and stopped. Cleared this throat. His voice went blank and empty. "At first I didn't know if Hagen had done it. If I'd let it happen."

"But it was Rebecca," said El softly. "She played you from the start. She played all of us, including Hagen."

Peter gripped Neal's shoulder. "Why the hell didn't you tell me Hagen was blackmailing you?"

Neal gave him a dry look, eyebrows slightly raised.

"Okay, yeah, I'm not thrilled about what you did. But everything you've said—the stealing, the collusion—that's small fry compared to what you owned up to back then. Hagen bribed the prosecutor, not you. He's the one who corrupted the system." Peter shook his head. "And for reasons that still escape me, you took the blame."

"I was responsible."

"Before Hagen contacted you, did you make any attempt to contact Dawson? Did you even run a background check on him?"

Neal shrugged one shoulder. "It never occurred to me."

"Right." Peter met his gaze. "Don't tell me you didn't have half a dozen other hare-brained jailbreak schemes worked out—"

"Mozzie wanted to use a skyhook."

"And don't forget the one where we were all going to retire to Alaska with new identities," said El.

Peter snorted and continued, still looking at Neal. "—but you weren't casing the justice system for its weak spots. You didn't plan to bribe anyone. And you still let me think—"

"Peter, you wouldn't have listened," said Neal.

Peter opened his mouth to defend himself, but the words died in his throat. Neal was right. Back then he'd been fired up with righteous indignation, blind to the truth. Furious with James, and taking it out on the nearest available target. Terrified of returning to prison and losing El, losing everything that mattered. Losing Neal. 

Nearly two years they'd been together as a triad, and he and Neal had never so much as alluded to this chapter of their history. If Peter thought of it at all, he told himself it was in the past, forgiven and forgotten—but now he saw it had been looming over them, silent and dreadful, all this time. His throat was dry; he swallowed. Neal had risked everything for him. He'd stolen and lied, and now, with the kindness of hindsight and the safety of distance, with everything that lay between them and a shared future stretching out ahead, those crimes seemed like nothing more than extravagant acts of loyalty and sacrifice, Caffrey style.

"Neal," said Peter, and Neal blinked. They rarely used his old name anymore, even when they were alone: out loud, it was either Victor or nicknames. But tonight they were skirting the edges of their old handler-CI relationship, opening up the past so they could heal those wounds. Peter dropped his hand from Neal's shoulder. "To the extent I held you responsible for James' actions—and Hagen and Mozzie and whoever else—I was wrong. I'm sorry."

Neal reached for him. He was flushed now, and apparently struck speechless.

"I know I was hard on you. I wanted you to have a better life, and that kind of change has to be earned."

"You were trying to do right by me," said Neal. "I know that. I never wanted to let you down."

Peter dragged him close and kissed him tenderly. "I'm so proud of you," he murmured.

"We both are," said El, snuggling in between them. "And if I _were_ going to have another baby, I'd want it to be yours, biologically, and he or she would be beautiful and smart and loving and incredible. I'm not saying no because of you—I need you to know that. I just don't want another baby."

Neal pressed his lips to hers. "I'm more than happy with what I've got, believe me."

"Me too," said El.

"Me three," said Peter. "So, you want to get married tomorrow, or are there some more skeletons in that closet of yours you need to clear out first?"

"Uh." Neal went red. "Since you ask. There was one time I broke into your bedroom safe for the U-boat art manifest."

"Oh, we know about that," said El, ruffling his hair.

Peter smirked. "Didn't you find the photo of the White Collar team?"

"That was for my benefit?" Neal was plainly bemused.

"Had to get through to you somehow."

"Well, it worked," said Neal.

"I know." Peter beamed at him, smugly. "That's all you've got, huh?"

Neal shrugged, loose and slightly at sea. "That's it. No more secrets. Now you know everything."

"And we still love you," said El.

"For better, for worse," agreed Peter. "Till death do us part."

"Save it for tomorrow." El grinned and pulled them both into a hug, hands and elbows and knees everywhere. Peter brushed his fingers over her breast, half by accident, and stroked over Neal's hip, and the others responded in kind, and within seconds, their innocent embrace turned heated and breathless. 

"Shouldn't we save this for our wedding night?" said Neal, nuzzling the angle of El's neck, and then raising up to kiss Peter's mouth, his hands somehow everywhere at once, groping and caressing. 

"Call this an undress rehearsal," said Peter, and El giggled and Neal laughed, and Peter knew with rock solid certainty that no one, anywhere, had ever been happier.


	5. Chapter 5

"And then Kevin, he's the tall one, tripped over the lever and fell down a tube and landed in a puddle of jelly, and all the peanut butter splashed down on him, and the other minions fell over laughing," said Mikey, who had watched the third Minions movie on the plane and was now recounting the plot in minute detail over dinner. 

"En français, Monstre," said Neal, but Mikey wasn't listening, and anyway, he probably knew if he tried to speak French, Peter and El would stop pretending to listen.

"Hey, babycakes," said El, interrupting Mikey's flow of words. "You want to try some delicious escargot? It's yummy." 

Mikey eyed her outstretched fork suspiciously. "Minions don't eat escar-no. They eat bananas. Mom, why do they—"

Neal let the movie talk wash over him and looked around La Palette, his old haunt. Nothing had changed; the same Stéphane Grappelli album was playing, and the warm aromas of butter and garlic, meat and herbs from the kitchen and cigarette smoke drifting in through the open window were like old friends. Tomorrow they'd have lunch with Cécile and Louise, and dinner with Claude. Take in a couple of museums and some of the sights that had captivated him in his exile. It was good to be back. 

He'd been looking forward to showing off the city for months. El was happy and excited, and Mikey was wide-eyed at all the new experiences. Peter was making no secret of his separation anxiety from the Bureau, naturally, but he'd get into the swing of their vacation soon enough. At least in time for the soccer match on Saturday, which they'd scheduled to offset all the arts and culture. 

Neal raised his glass. "To Paris, the city of romance. And it only took us three years of planning to get here. Let's make this an annual event."

"I'll drink to that," said El. She was still trying to coax Mikey into trying escargot, but she raised her glass and chimed it against Neal's.

"Can I see how this trip goes before I commit myself?" asked Peter. 

"Try before you buy." El grinned. "Come on, Mikey, just a taste."

Mikey took the fork and regarded the snail doubtfully, and Neal rubbed his shoulder. "We'll make a Frenchman of you yet, mon petit."

He expected Peter to chime in with the old Life Cereal joke, like he usually did when Mikey was trying new foods, but instead Peter wrinkled his nose and shook his head. "He has too much sensible Burke DNA to put one of those in his mouth. He's his father's son."

On cue, Mikey threw the fork down, spattering garlic butter across the white tablecloth, and Neal took a sharp breath. He knew Peter hadn't meant to exclude him, but it stung. There was a hell of a lot more to being a dad than contributing genetic material, and Neal had been there, through the hard times and the good, just like Peter and El. He pushed his chair back and stood up. "I have to get some air. I'll see you back at the hotel."

"Babe," said El, but he left anyway. They were staying just around the corner. Peter and El had credit cards and GPS, and the staff at La Palette was used to English-speaking tourists. They'd be fine without him for an hour or two. 

He strode down the Rue de Seine to the Pont du Carrousel and leaned on the concrete parapet, looking at the sky above, high and blue, with the first hints of sunset gilding fluffy clouds; the river flowing past below. He'd stood here a hundred times before, watching the world, letting the city soak into his skin. Life had been easier then, a dazzling whirl of museums and gastronomy. He'd had time and space to rediscover who he was and decide the kind of man he wanted to be. Minimal responsibilities, no concern for anyone's happiness but his own.

But no love, either. Nowhere to belong. He'd been a compass needle without a north and lied to himself that he liked it that way, that it was enough to have work and art and the city around him. 

He'd traded Paris for New York, for their home in Brooklyn, for El and Peter and Mikey and Satchmo, and he'd do it again in a heartbeat. But that didn't make him impervious to careless words—if anything, it made them hurt more.

He took out his phone, checked the time and made a call.

"Hey, man," said Trey when he answered. "Aren't you supposed to be in France?"

"I am. I'm actually talking to you from the Pont du Carrousel on the Seine." 

"Well, either it's going fantastically, and you're calling to gloat, or—"

Neal sighed. "It's stupid. Peter made a crack about Burke DNA and Mikey being his father's son, and I lost it."

"Well, that's because your husband has the sensitivity of a warthog. He's a good guy, but you know that as well as I do."

Neal smirked and immediately felt better. It was slander, and if anyone else had said it, he'd have defended Peter up one side of the river and down the other, but Trey was speaking from his own experience with Sheila. Like Neal, he'd come late to married life, having spent twenty years as a traveling sales rep all over the country. Then he'd met Sheila, fallen in love and moved to Cobble Hill with their daughter Nova, from Sheila's first marriage, who was wheelchair-bound after a spinal cord injury in her early teens. Trey was a devoted dad, and whatever El thought of him, a good guy. And he was the only person Neal knew who understood about being a non-biological father and sometimes feeling like an outsider in his own family. 

"So I don't know if you're overreacting," continued Trey, "but I do know you should get over it. He didn't mean it, and more importantly, you're in Paris! You don't want to waste your glamor vacation feeling shitty."

"You're right." Neal ran his hand through his hair, and his phone beeped with an incoming call. "Hang on a sec."

It was Peter. "Hey, I'm an idiot. I didn't think."

Tension eased in Neal's chest. Peter had been thoughtless, but at least Neal didn't have to try to explain his point of view again, with all the awkwardness from Peter and sympathetic looks from El that entailed. "It's okay. I shouldn't have walked out like that."

"I'll make it up to you," said Peter. "But right now, Mikey's sick, and he wants Papa." He sounded serious but not panicked.

Neal started heading back the way he'd come. "I'm on my way."

"We're at the hotel," said Peter. "Not sure if it's indigestion or a bug, but if his temperature goes any higher, El thinks we'll need a doctor."

"I know someone," said Neal. "I'll be there in five." He switched phone calls and said to Trey, "Gotta go. Dad stuff. Thanks for listening."

"Quid pro quo, man," said Trey. "Send me a postcard."

"You got it." Neal disconnected, left the last traces of his bad mood on the bridge and hurried back to the hotel to look after his family.

 

*

 

Peter was in their room, standing at the foot of the bed, checking something on his phone. He looked up when Neal came in. 

Neal walked right into his arms, and they hugged for a long comforting minute. Neal closed his eyes, slowing his breath and appreciating Peter's strong embrace, their certainty in each other that no minor slight could shake. "Where is he?"

As he said it, the bathroom door opened, and they could hear the woeful sobs of a small boy, but Peter answered anyway. "El's cleaning him up. I was just checking WebMD."

"His temperature's fine," said El from the doorway. She had Mikey in her arms, his face flushed and tearstained. "I think he's just tired and worked up and wants his papa."

Neal reached for him automatically, taking his squirming little body in his arms. "Hey, Monster, not feeling so good, hey? You want to lie down for a while?"

Mikey pressed his face into Neal's shoulder and nodded. "Want a story. Want all of you to read to me."

"Whatever you want, kiddo," said Neal. "We're here for you."


	6. Chapter 6

El was at the dining table, hunched over her FoldnFlex screen and tearing her hair out over a last-minute budget proposal for a big product launch when Peter got home. She glanced at the corner of her screen and saw the time as he came in and shook raindrops off his hair all over the room, making Tootie jump up from her bed and dance around, barking disapproval. 

"Hey, hon, sorry I'm so late," said Peter over the din. He looked as harried as El felt. She hushed the new puppy, and Peter sent a frowning glance at the empty kitchen. "No Victor?"

"He's meeting us at June's," said El. "How did it get to be six-thirty already? Gah, I promised the client I'd get this to them by first thing tomorrow." She'd been caught up in budget calculations for the last hour, and she was still missing $18K somewhere, which should've been impossible because the spreadsheet calculations were automated. She took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. 

Peter groaned. "June and Mozzie's dinner—that's tonight?"

"Yes, and no excuses," said El, firmly. If she gave Peter the option, he'd stay home on the couch. "Mikey's upstairs doing his homework. You get him ready; I'll feed the puppy and call to let them know we're on our way."

"I need to change my shoes anyway," grumbled Peter. "These have sprung a leak. My sock is squishing."

"We told you—" said El, but Peter was heading for the stairs, and there was nothing to be gained from I-told-you-so-s, even if Peter still insisted on buying cheap shoes that inevitably failed him at critical junctures. He was a grown man, and it was his choice; he could suffer the consequences.

She called Neal while she poured puppy chow into the bowl. "Chaos on the home front, but we're nearly out the door."

"Be careful out there. Mozzie just arrived, and he said the traffic is hell." Neal sounded tired. They'd all been working too hard. But it was only two more weeks till their annual Parisian adventure. They just needed to hang in there.

"We will. See you soon, babe." El disconnected the call, refreshed the puppy's water bowl and went to put her coat on. "Boys, are you—" Her phone rang. It was Sabina Kanekoa, one of the moms from school.

"Hi, Elizabeth? Sorry, I meant to call earlier, but I haven't had a moment to breathe. I thought you should know, Delia saw Mikey playing cards with some older boys after school today. It might be nothing, but she says money was changing hands—"

"Oh, seriously?" El suppressed a rush of parental embarrassment. "Thanks, Sabina. I appreciate your calling. Talk to you soon." She disconnected and dropped her phone into her purse. "Neal Michael Burke, come down here now!"

Mikey burst out of his room and came clattering down the stairs. His shoes were caked in mud, and El saw now that he'd left a trail through the house earlier, which just added to her aggravation. 

"Yeah, Mom?"

"What's going on?" Peter followed Mikey down. He was in his best shoes, which would be ruined in this weather, but El couldn't think about that now. She folded her arms.

"Sabina just called to say Mikey was playing cards with some boys after school." She tried to keep her tone neutral, but they were already running late, and Sabina wouldn't have called if it had been a simple game of Go Fish. "Is she right, Mikey?"

Peter sat on the stairs and braced his elbows on his knees, his face stern. "Tell us what happened."

Mikey squared his shoulders and stuck his hands in his pockets. "A couple of fifth-graders were playing three-card Mozzie in the back of the gym, and Mrs. Bykowsky said gambling isn't allowed on school grounds, so I—"

"Did you tell on them?" said El, at once relieved and alarmed. He hadn't instigated a gambling ring at least; if he'd appointed himself school cop, she supposed that was the lesser of two evils. He'd always had a strong sense of right and wrong, and they'd encouraged him to obey the rules, but he still had to learn when to get involved and when to turn a blind eye. 

Mikey looked offended. "No! I went undercover to gather evidence. Like on CrimeBusters. Like Papa. I went undercover and joined the game. Only I couldn't use an alias because they already knew me and I didn't have a disguise." He scowled. Obviously this was a sore point.

El almost face-palmed. Not only a school cop, but an undercover one. It seemed like yesterday she'd lived her life on tenterhooks because her guys were leaping from one dangerous case to the next, and now Mikey was carrying on the family tradition. 

Peter covered his eyes. "What happened?"

"Sorren called me a geek and said I was too young to play, and I said I know three-card Mozzie, and he bet me I couldn't take them, so I—"

Peter looked up, tired and resigned. "How much did you win?"

"Forty-two dollars," said Mikey.

It was probably just as well Neal wasn't there too, or El would have started giggling uncontrollably: it was such a familiar scenario. As it was, she had to suppress a grin. "The seduction of the dark side. You're giving that money back, young man."

"I can't. I lost it on the way home."

Peter raised his eyebrows. "You lost forty-two dollars."

Mikey looked noble and self-sacrificing. "Well, I _wanted_ to buy games for my phone, but it was ill-gotten gains, so I gave it to charity."

That was something. "What charity?"

"The Family Research Institute. The lady said my donation would help make the world safer for kids all over America."

"The Family Research Institute is a homophobic hate group who are lobbying the government to make families like ours illegal. You gave them a donation?" Peter looked outraged.

"I thought they were a charity." Mikey turned red, and his chin wobbled in the face of Peter's disapproval. 

"That's what they want you to think, Monster," said El, rubbing his shoulder. "So to sum up, you gambled with some older boys, took their money, and accidentally gave it to some bad people."

"The other boys were hardly innocent in all this," said Peter. 

El sent him a sharp look. "Not the point, hon. Mikey lied to gain their trust."

"It's not lying! I was undercover!" shouted Mikey, going redder, making Tootie whine and slink under the table.

"No shouting in the house, Mikey. You're scaring the puppy. And undercover is for grown-ups whose job is protecting people and enforcing the law," said El. "When it's just you deciding to do it on your own, it's lying. I'm guessing you didn't tell Mrs. Bykowsky about the gambling?"

Mikey looked like he wanted to yell some more, but he glanced at Peter and squirmed instead. "No."

"See, once you're involved, you can't tell," said Peter. "That's why undercover is for grownups with the legal right to go after known criminals. There have to be rules, or you might end up encouraging people to do bad things so you can catch them at it."

"What about The CrimeBusters?" said Mikey. "They're just kids."

"They're not real," said Peter. "In the real world, most of what they do would be illegal."

"But I was just—"

"No," said El. "No 'but.' If someone's being hurt, you tell a teacher. And if it's only about getting someone in trouble, then you stay out of it. But either way, you don't investigate. You got that?"

Mikey looked mutinous for a moment, then hung his head and sighed heavily. "Okay. Jeez."

"Hey, we know you meant well," said Peter, reaching out and ruffling his hair. "But you're still going to have to give the money back."

"That's right," said El. "And since you already spent it, you're going to have to earn it first doing chores. No arguments. Now, let's get going. We're already late. Papa will be waiting."

"One more thing," said Peter. He beckoned Mikey over and looked at him seriously. "We'll tell Papa later on, when we get home, but until then, not a word, all right? Mozzie can never know about any of this."

"Hon."

"What?" said Peter, spreading his hands and looking innocent as an angel. "Our son took some older kids for forty-two dollars, playing a game that Mozzie taught him. You know Mozzie doesn't need that kind of encouragement."

And despite herself, despite the rain and the drama and everything, El laughed.

 

*

 

Later that evening, after they'd filled Neal in, and Mikey had gone to bed, and Tootie was asleep in the laundry, Peter put his arms around Neal in the middle of the living room. "Looks like someone's following in your footsteps," he said in a low, fond voice.

Neal smirked. "Well, you did name him after me."

El pressed send on her email with the completed budget proposal and looked up from her FoldnFlex. "Neal's not the only one here who's worked undercover, hon. You've done it yourself on a number of heart-stopping occasions."

"That's right." Neal winked at her. "And I seem to recall at least one occasion when you impersonated a federal agent in front of a gang of armed criminals."

"That was different." El grinned.

"That was a thousand times more dangerous," said Peter.

She laughed. "So what you're saying is we've all done undercover, and it was inevitable our beloved monster would too."

Neal dipped his head. "Well, he escaped unscathed—"

"With forty-two dollars," said Peter.

"—so he has our luck too."

A shiver ran down El's spine. "Don't tempt Fate."

"He's a smart kid with a good head on his shoulders." Peter came over to her, pulled her out of her chair and drew her into a three-way hug. "And after everything we've been through, I think it's pretty obvious Fate's on our side."

 

END


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